


Destiny and Crap Like That

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, An Actual Plot™, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Archaic Customs, Banter, Biting, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Character Study, Companionable Snark, Explicit Sexual Content, Fate & Destiny, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fucking Destiny Motherfuckers, Geraskier Fun Day (The Witcher), Hair Pulling, Hand Jobs, Humour, Jaskier | Dandelion Is a Kingmaker, Loss of Virginity, Love Bites, M/M, Making Out, Monarchy, Neck Kissing, Porn With Plot, Royalty, Snark, Sort Of, Succession by Trial, That AU Where Jaskier Is a Kingmaker and Fucks Geralt into Royalty, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24344698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Jaskier opens and closes his mouth in a solid imitation of a landed fish. "I'll have you know I am a fucking delight to be around," is about as much as he manages to say without resorting to recounting tales of nobles falling over themselves to gain his favour."Your trousers are wet."(Written for Geraskier Fun Day: Royals. A tad belated.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 64
Kudos: 870
Collections: Geraskier Fun Day





	Destiny and Crap Like That

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is kind of a tropey mess, which is par for the course with me, I suppose. I'm only familiar with the TV series and whatever I could find on the Witcher Wikia, but since it's all very AU-ish anyway, please suspend your disbelief and pretend alongside me that there is a nameless kingdom located between the Yaruga and the Amell Mountains sort of bordering Riverdell, Cintra and Sodden. *waves hands around everywhere* *invokes hand-wavey shenanigans*
> 
> This has been an intense writing process. IDEK, please tell me what you think, afahgfskgkjdsk.

Another feast.

Although Jaskier rather enjoys a good shindig, he'd enjoy this one a whole lot more if the potential for him to end up dead weren't exponentially higher than it's been in eighteen years, bar a kidnapping or assassination attempt or two.

He looks up from his goblet of disgustingly blood-red wine he's been poured—not one of the vintages they habitually hold in the castle cellars, and undoubtedly a gift which has been tasted thoroughly before presented for his consumption—to scan the room. The best attendance yet. Then again, it is the night _before_. They will all have arrived by dawn's light, whoever's willing and able and _believes_. Belief might not buy you a place in history, but it might just make some try for a footnote. Simply put, they believe it could be them.

Beltane. The maze.

Jaskier shakes the thought away, and drinks. The wine will surely go to his head, but he needs liquid courage to handle the lords and ladies and whoever else got invited to his pre-deflowering feast. _Allegedly._ It's tradition, but no one expects it, although they crave it in the most obvious of ways, eyes bright and staring gracelessly. Jaskier drinks some more, his doublet uncomfortably tight across his chest for an instant, the silk too constricting. Doesn't think too much on _that_ particular part of it, not when there's the means of dulling the senses at his fingertips so that by the end of the night he won't have much in the way of thoughts to give to the days to come.

It hasn't rained in weeks, but it did earlier in the day. An omen. Or absolute bullshit. Jaskier's pretty much used to both carrying equal weight at this point where the court is concerned. Cynics and believers using anything and everything equally effectively and mercilessly, and not even realising it probably. Gods, he's not the worst bullshitter himself, not to brag. He could spin a tale and have it passed on for years to come on how the rains came and washed away his people's trials after Jaskier made his fateful choice on the morrow.

He watches the crowds. He watches the delegation from Cintra entering the Grand Hall, beautiful each and every one of them. He bets they don't have their princes and princesses chased around an interminable maze for hours and even days until some lucky sod happens upon them to happily claim the throne when it's time for a new queen. He knows they don't. He's stopped asking why his people _do_ around his eleventh spring, and he hardly thinks on it now. What would be the point?

Vaguely disinterested is as much enthusiasm as Jaskier can put forward when it's the third evening of festivities. A gaggle of people entering the great doors at regular intervals and coming as close as they dare to either gawk or stare him down—sometimes both in quick succession—doesn't leave much room to enjoy himself beyond what the wine affords him.

Idly, he wonders whether he could drown himself in any of the wine goblets sitting about the place when his sight falls on yet another guest, very clearly a witcher. A cut high on his cheek, partially healed yet still visible to Jaskier from across the room, drags his gaze there, and then upwards to his eyes. Someone shouts, "The Witcher Geralt of Rivia!" The entire room snaps to attention, although most look away quickly enough. A tamed tiger at a banquet makes people nervous, but not enough to spoil the evening.

Jaskier, for his part, doesn't think too deeply on why there would be a witcher present, much less the Butcher of Blaviken. Someone's bodyguard perhaps. He wipes absently at his mouth. His eyes cut away. His cup is empty and needs refilling, after all.

*

Shifting from murdering your siblings to murdering complete strangers didn't work out so hot in the olden days. Jaskier has been told some version of this throughout his eighteen years. At one point, everyone in the kingdom wised up that maybe a succession by trial where combat might play a more minimal role would be more in the stars than for the royal family to be butchering either each other or any of the common folk stupid enough to step forward to try to claim the throne from them.

Somewhere in there is where Jaskier steps in, or—well—not Jaskier himself, necessarily, but what he stands for.

Royal Kingmaker.

Or Queenmaker. Whatever. No one's really picky these days.

The Maze—capital letters when it's the Kingmaker's eighteenth spring on the cusp of Beltane in a kingless kingdom—has been closed off for seven years now, since Jaskier's cousin fell on the battlefield. With no other choice, no other siblings or close enough relatives to act as Kingmaker, the role fell on him.

Who would ask this of a child? Many, but luckily, not his people. But it's been years where he's been spared. The High Council has been allowed to continue on, but their sunset has come. Everyone recognises it's a tenuous thing, this freedom of theirs, seven years longer than they deserved.

Tomorrow, once the dusk light gives way to the light from bonfires burning in his honour, Jaskier will enter The Maze and wait for the True King or Queen to find him. He's been hearing it his entire life how he should not let himself be found until any and all competitors have been butchered or driven away. The Maze might have been closed off to everyone, but everyone has never been Jaskier, who knows it like the back of his hand, knows it like he knows what he has to do. Destiny. Someone worthy. His choice should be someone _good_ for his people, someone _deserving_ of the throne. Fucking _not_ the worst option is all he could ever hope for, never mind destiny and all that crap.

They will accept whomever he chooses, he knows, but history will be less understanding should he pick unwisely. As far as Jaskier's concerned, history is already being a right prick. Cock. _Fuck._

*

Sweat breaks out over the back of Jaskier's neck. The room is hot, the air soupy, and the people bothersome.

The most frustrating thing is that he can't seem to finish his second goblet, the wine too heavy and his tongue too big in his own mouth, which means he's left disturbingly sober and watchful and an easy target for conversation.

Air. He requires some, the fresher the better. Getting up from his seat at the highest table while no dance is in progress to offer a distraction is entirely his mistake, and he ends up winking in passing at about half a dozen ladies by way of escaping their advances, but does get stopped and engaged in conversation by about double that amount of lords, until he mercifully reaches a side door behind some curtains. One of the bards manages to spill his own wine on Jaskier's trousers before he can escape through the tapestry, but that only provides a plausible excuse for his speedy exit.

It's become a well-known trait of Jaskier's to smile winningly, head tipped jauntily, each and every time he would be presented with a situation where a normal human person may take to anger or hysterics. He can't quite afford either. Consequently, he quietly reassures the bard his head will not get chopped off at morning's light, and finally manages to disappear after motioning self-consciously to his soiled garments in explanation. He turns away from commiserating nods from the people closest, and hopes no one will take this opportunity to follow him to gain his favour or something equally stupid.

He has a keeper, who's most likely diddling one of the kitchen maids right about now, which behooves Jaskier so tremendously he could hardly fail to take the chance at a few blissful moments of solitude away from the proceedings, wine-stained trousers or not.

The music and noise pouring through the crack in the heavy fabric dies down as soon as Jaskier lets it fall behind him. He then pushes the door easily back to its initial position masquerading as part of the heavy wall behind the tapestry, thus closing the corridor off from the rest of the castle. There is still light enough to see clearly, although Jaskier knows the torches are rarer the deeper he enters the castle's bowels.

As far as he's concerned, he could stand in darkness well beyond the length of an evening, as long as he can have it only for himself. The steps to the floor above start only a few feet from the entrance to the corridor, and he climbs them quickly. From there, he has to walk the length of the Great Hall, walking as he does a darkened room right above it identical but for the lack of finery and the tallness of its ceilings and its distinct lack of nobles, until he reaches a narrow flight of stairs going up and sideways to the West Tower. If there were any windows, one could see the maze clearly from this side of the castle, but Jaskier wouldn't look, he would merely climb. He does this now.

There are arrowslits all along it going upwards for, as far as Jaskier can see, no fathomable reason, as an army could hardly place themselves up and down the stairs to efficiently fire at an invading enemy, but they let in minimal light for guidance. As it is, visibility comes from the torches below carrying their light upwards, though the farther up one goes, the less light there is. At one point it will meet the torchlight coming from the upper levels, but there is a point in the middle where there is almost none to speak of but for the moonlight streaming through the nearest loophole.

Shortly, Jaskier finds himself precisely there. And although his eyes have adapted well and his knowledge of the castle is perhaps as good as anyone's who has ever lived in it, he is, unfortunately, but human.

He takes the next step, and the step after that, and this time his foot... misses. Or slips. Something entirely human.

He almost stumbles up the next step, expects a handy wall to be conveniently nearby, and sort of falls into, of all people, the witcher, who looks vaguely unamused and decidedly unimpressed from barely a couple of inches away where he's apparently been hiding in an alcove deep within the castle bowels. It must be the shock of it, because Jaskier doesn't immediately react, and he certainly doesn't expect to be pushed away as if he's just taken a nice refreshing bath in Selkiemore guts. Which— _rude_.

It's mildly inconvenient for his sneaking around, and also possibly deadly, that he's just literally run into the only witcher in the castle. From the minimal light available, he can't decipher whether he should be genuinely afraid, or simply inconvenienced as only royalty can be. The lack of steel does bode well, though Jaskier finds himself considering how very breakable his limbs and his neck and his entire being suddenly is. Funny how such knowledge can so very unexpectedly sneak up on one.

He recovers quickly enough to grin his most enchanting grin, and say, "Pardon, but you seem to be lost, witcher. Geralt of Rivia, was it?"

Geralt of Rivia is certainly a chiselled sort of fellow, even in mediocre finery. His face hardly moves as he gives his reply. "You equally so."

Imagine! Telling the prince anything of the sort. Jaskier has to admit it's intriguingly ballsy. Still rude, but in a charming sort of way. The impenetrable stare and sharp cheekbones help, as does the lack of immediate violence to his person. _That_ always does the trick, what.

They're two and a half floors from where Jaskier's chambers are located, besides it being the wrong wing of the castle, yet Jaskier feels compelled to point out, of the two of them, Jaskier is most certainly the only one who should be wandering around, thank you very much.

"Well," he starts, " _I_ am walking the corridors. Of _my_ castle."

"Not _exactly_ yours."

Well, that's just _unacceptably_ rude, regardless of the thickness of one's— _everything_. As if being built like a brick shithouse gives him the right to—whatever. "You do realise that one penetratingly-high yell from me, and you'd be out of here so fast you'd end up with scorch marks on your lovely bum?"

"Hmm."

The monosyllabic shtick is. _Fantastic_. Truly a treat. Jaskier feels a twitch at his jaw. Vague annoyance he hasn't much cause to feel habitually suddenly tickles at him. Something like a light laugh, almost a giggle, bubbles up at the base of his throat, which he swallows down instantly, has to.

Another source of light would go over lovely right about now, even if it were to merely consist of a single candle casting flickering shadows across the high walls. The lack of genuine light cuts the silence between them with sharp teeth. Idly, Jaskier sort of wants to chomp down on something.

Moonlight will do. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, I'm a prince and you're a witcher," he points out very reasonably.

He gets a snort in response, and, lowly, "You're an arse is what you are."

Jaskier bounces back rather eloquently. "Pot, kettle, etcetera." He realises he should be mildly offended at the forwardness. They have, technically, just met, yet the back and forth is wildly refreshing, the fresh air he was seeking but in a different form.

"Hmm."

"Well, I—" Jaskier breaks off, and a frown darkens his face. "Not very communicative, are we?"

Geralt's jaw tightens even more, unbelievably enough, almost like it's paining him to open his mouth and actually utter words. "Isn't the royal muppet needed downstairs?"

Well. _Well._

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth in a solid imitation of a landed fish. "I'll have you know I am a fucking delight to be around," is about as much as he manages to say without resorting to recounting tales of nobles falling over themselves to gain his favour. It leaves ample conversational room for _someone_ to be contrite before he has to point out he _is_ the Kingmaker, which he knows this witcher person knows—knows and chooses to ignore, as if he couldn't give less of a damn about kingdoms and royals.

Geralt, for his part, most definitely _does not_ apologise. Nothing like an apology is forthcoming here. Instead, Jaskier has the dubious pleasure of watching him in the darkness of a stairwell looking him up and down only slightly lingeringly. Stares into Jaskier's face. Doesn't blink. Says, "Your trousers are wet." Jaskier didn't realise he was holding his breath. Now he sputters and nearly chokes on air.

" _Thank you_ oh so much for pointing that out. I completely failed to notice." He sighs, and uncrosses his arms halfway before crossing them back over his chest with a huff. It's about then that it occurs to him Geralt really and truly has no reason to be here.

If he were in danger, this is the worst location to attempt running away. "All right," he says instead. "What are you doing in this part of the castle? Is this a ploy to kidnap me?" It would be the least surprising thing about this entire situation.

Geralt doesn't speak immediately. Just tilts his head condescendingly and continues to not speak a word. Even a belittling _hmm_ would do just fine right about now.

If there's one thing Jaskier abhors it's silence, especially the awkward kind. "People have tried, you know. Numerous times. I'm a hot commodity. Don't need me to tell you that." He tries to do a sort of twirl, which has him almost slipping backwards down the stairs. He catches himself and flushes unattractively.

Geralt's eyes shift to the side. Jaskier wonders whether in the right light they would look like pure gold, true riches in a dragon's cave. He focuses back on Jaskier soon enough, and that thought flies away. Once more the words seem as if they are being torn from him like flesh. "I was in search of fresh air."

Jaskier perks up instantly. "So was I! What a coincidence," he adds, a tad on the snarky side for good measure.

"Hmm."

Undaunted, Jaskier follows that up with, "We could go together," hesitates, "except maybe not, as that would seem, um, unseemly. I am, after all, the Kingmaker, and tomorrow is Beltane, and, really, my honour is at stake here. Sort of," he finishes lamely.

Geralt blinks. "Your honour?"

It might be beneath him to so blatantly eyeball him, but Jaskier does. " _You_ know." Unless he doesn't. But everyone knows, so that's stupid, so very stupid that Geralt wouldn't. "As it happens, uh, untouched. That is I," he finishes rather dubiously. Lately, his sentences have a way of disintegrating completely midway through, which he should really look into. Later.

There's a shift somewhere. Jaskier can't put his finger on it. Can't figure out where it happened. It seems to be a palpable thing between them all of a sudden, in the small space they occupy, but it could have easily come from Geralt himself. Jaskier doesn't know what it means. The stony face before him is giving him literally nothing it hasn't given him already since they ran into each other.

Then Geralt says, "No one has enjoyed you?"

The phrasing is questionable. Jaskier flushes instantly anyway.

He recovers enough to mutter, "Don't worry, whoever wins The Maze will get their just deserts." It irritates Jaskier all of a sudden to be talking about this. He lowers his arms to his sides, hands clenching restlessly.

"You?"

Jaskier cannot help himself—he smiles. "The throne, one might say," he half-whispers, quietly pleased when Geralt's eyes don't leave his.

"Hmm."

He thinks that's it, but Geralt surprises him by commenting, completely unprompted, "It is your choice." Due to the flatness of his voice Jaskier has trouble figuring out whether there's a particular emphasis on any of the words, or whether he was simply projecting some stray thought of his own onto them.

Taking the words at objective value, yes, that is certainly a way of looking at it. Not entirely inaccurate. Jaskier sometimes thinks it's like saying the one who throws the dice has a hand in choosing what the dice will read when they land.

"You could choose anyone," Geralt continues.

There's an implication there which Jaskier can't quite ignore, which might be what makes him say it. "I can't choose me."

Geralt blinks slowly, thoughtfully. "No, you can't choose you." Stops, then asks, "Would you want to?"

"Not really. I'd be nice to have the choice, though." But that's a line of thinking he's not willing to entertain further at this time. His mouth clamps shut and his jaw tightens lest he say more, the quiet between them and the moonlight in his eyes threatening to play tricks on his tongue and loosen it.

He expects more gruff sounds standing in for words, but Geralt doesn't seem to have anything to say, no reaction to convey. That leaves them in total silence once more. 

Social awkwardness isn't Jaskier's idea of a pleasant evening. He's about to expound at length on how, if Geralt's not about to kidnap him at knife-point, Jaskier would rather just find his way to his royal chambers as initially intended, thank you ever so much, when he instead finds himself sort of sharing very little space with the man. As in, Geralt's head is cocked consideringly at him from much closer than is entirely appropriate given their having no actual excuse this time around to be in such close proximity.

Jaskier's not an idiot. Well, not about this.

When attractive men with nice shoulders happen to put their equally attractive mouths on yours you should, like, _you know_ , kiss them back. A little. It's what happens: One moment Geralt's occupying an obnoxiously large amount of space Jaskier would like back, thanks; the next he's dipping his head down in what amounts to Jaskier's third kiss ever. Jaskier kisses him back far too clumsily, but he's warm all over from it anyway, thus it must not matter much that he's not completely certain what comes next. Other than the obvious.

What comes next is Geralt brushing a final kiss against his mouth before drawing away. He doesn't move the rest of him out of Jaskier's personal bubble, but the kissing has certainly stopped. Jaskier has something to say to that, but he still has a semblance of having _some_ priorities here.

His voice is a tad wispy, but he doubts there's much he can do to right it. "You do know this isn't how it works, right? You get nothing for fucking me."

"I would have assumed that is reward enough in itself," Geralt very annoyingly counters. That small smile flickers around his lips once more.

Wanting to scoff and succeeding prove to be very different things when Jaskier's having trouble breathing normally as it is. He harrumphs in preparation for a less thready tirade, but that never actually happens once Geralt ducks his head again.

Instead, he ends up tipped back against the nearest wall, lips parting on a swift breath. Geralt lays one hand on Jaskier's waist, whose mouth waters more than is surely normal, face already seemingly sunburnt where he's blushing all over, and then presses him tightly to the wall for good measure. A mass of quivering energy at the pit of his stomach has him vaguely nauseated for the longest second of his life before Geralt's tongue licks inside him. Then he's far too occupied with moaning obscenely into his mouth and kissing back to bother much with uncertainties and insecurities and the like.

Feels his clothing being pushed back and away, and the castle's draught, inescapable, is a shock after everything. More shocking than Geralt scrambling at the back of his head to push his fingers into his hair and _pull_. Jaskier moans. He can't help it. Geralt's lips find the spots high up on the column of his neck where he's apparently the most sensitive. Mouths there insistently before chomping down greedily. Jaskier wails, but he can hardly be expected to refrain when he's got sharp teeth worrying at him deliciously. His arms scramble almost desperately at Geralt's shoulders to pull him closer. Too quiet and louder than he'd meant, "Please," spread out across a dozen syllables, vowels stretched out to end on a feeble hiss. Geralt's sucks at the thin skin at the same time he clenches his fingers harshly, and Jaskier _screams_.

No guards come running. If he had even a sliver of his faculties intact, Jaskier would be kicking up a fuss about it right now, feet stomping imperiously and everything. But he doesn't and he isn't and _oh fuck_ , his cock is so hard in his best dress trousers he thinks he might be soiling the insides of his smallclothes with how much he's leaking. Geralt's thigh pushes between his legs, and he rocks his prick into the solid muscles there for relief which never comes. He doesn't move away either, the harsh tease bitingly pleasurable in itself for as long as it lasts.

But coming over himself, over Geralt, over _everything_ , right now, which is much too soon, might just ruin what's yet to happen between them. He tilts his head to rest the crown of it against the wall behind him as far back as he's able. When he swallows another moan, his stretched throat bobs and rolls with it, spit like stones going down his gullet. Almost wants Geralt to be able to taste it through skin and muscles and tendons.

Quicker than should be possible, unless the row of sucking bites Geralt is bestowing upon his neck is utterly decimating what's left of his awareness of anything else, Jaskier finds his doublet open and undershirt pushed to his armpits while his trousers and smallclothes flutter around his boots. Then fingers push and prod at him, between his legs and behind him, finding his hole to finger the rim and spread there oil whose origin Jaskier can't even hardly imagine. The first finger burns on the first push in, but it stills once buried fully to allow Jaskier time to settle and will his lower half into a calm he can't quite feel with Geralt now sucking on his tongue and using his other hand to fondle at his balls.

Eventually the muscles relax enough to allow for movement. More is too much until it's just right. A finger becomes two, and then he's empty again before Geralt scrambles at his own trousers. Jaskier doesn't help, preferring to pepper kisses along his sharp jaw. He knows what's coming, and he can't pretend to be surprised it's _a lot_. But he's a forever-crownless prince making a solid choice for himself for once, and that means he pushes through the initial discomfort and, yes, even mild pain before the head pops in and Geralt thrusts forward to bury himself to the root. Jaskier can't help but clamp down, hole fluttering at the feel of it. This time there's no actual time to adjust before Geralt pulls out. He starts a steady rhythm, grip hard at Jaskier's hips, and Jaskier tries his best to hold on.

If he'd given any thought to sex outside of this whole royalty bit, he would have thought he'd be all aloof and the like. The reality he's being confronted with is that not only is he very into a fat prick in his bum, but Geralt's shoulders are going to be marked for days from Jaskier being a grabby bastard even through his clothes. He can hardly be blamed. It's too good, shouldn't be this good. Hardly anyone could equate being upright in a chilly corridor against a stone wall with plush bedding in a warmed room. Objectively, this shouldn't be making Jaskier so hot he feels as if he might spill if there's a slight wind blowing.

As it is, he can't hold on much longer, neither of them do. Geralt palm still slightly oiled from fingering him open moves from his hip to his cock to stroke him inelegantly but very effectively. It takes embarrassingly little effort to have him spilling up his own chest.

He reckons Geralt will fuck his come inside him, but he's surprised when he pulls out to mercilessly thrust into his own hand, the one he used to finish Jaskier off just now, and splatter the wall behind him. A hysterical giggle escapes Jaskier before he can stomp down on it. Recovery doesn't come easily, but he tries. Standing upright in itself is a chore.

He regains his breath enough to manage, "A bit of a damp squib, wasn't it?" Looking down, he notices his cock is alternating between still dribbling a bit of come right at the slit and twitching as if wanting to harden back up every couple of seconds, which might be why Geralt appears overwhelmingly sceptical of Jaskier's words, besides the fact that Jaskier's hands are still clutching at his shoulders. Which is... fair. Jaskier's an idiot, and this was bloody—something fucking else. Can't imagine anything can compare, which is kind of depressing, definitely bleak, to think this would amount to the best sex he will ever have in his entire life. He's pretty sure anything better would kill him, so there's that as a silver lining of sorts.

"Hmm?"

Jaskier doesn't know if Geralt's actually asking anything here, but he responds anyway. "That being said, I'd much prefer not to do my own walking at present, thank you," he manages to mutter weakly, a quiver running down his spine which pushes another gasp from his lips. He flushes further under Geralt's stare and subsequent smirk. Didn't think that'd be even remotely physically possible.

"Oh?" Fortunately, Geralt's voice is a couple of octaves lower, which Jaskier never thought would be possible either.

"Highly suspicious," he counters. "Hardly princely."

He suspects he gets kissed more out of being shut up than anything else, but he'll take it, and gladly.

*

Two hours of fitful sleep do not a happy Jaskier make, or something along those lines. Honestly, coherent thought processes are daunting enough on a regular basis, thank you very much.

If anything, he's the most sore he's ever been in his life, bar that one time he fell out of the tallest apple tree as a runt of barely seven. Only this time the soreness is present in curiously new yet decidedly interesting places. Places which make him blush unattractively to think about even as his stewart is fussing with his sleeve in the most punctilious manner, as if it actually matters, or makes a difference, how he's dressed this morning.

Eventually, he did do his own walking after all, enough to make his way to his chambers, but only after more and more kisses. Too many. Too many to count, and too many to say. Geralt had to push him up the stairs, a delicious adventure in itself, with little patience but a decidedly steady hand, yet Jaskier thinks he saw the shadow of a smile gracing his lips, or it perhaps was only a stray flickering of flame from the corridors below them.

Leaving a witcher wandering the halls of his castle was perhaps not the wisest of ideas, but it's Geralt. Somehow, that makes a whole world of difference where Jaskier is concerned. That, or he's being unaccountably stupid after one evening of allowing what amounts to a complete stranger to take a poke.

*

The High Council chiefly consists of a bunch of self-righteous pricks. Jaskier has to admit he envies them a little at this juncture. Don't get him wrong, a lot of heads will surely go flying if his consort turns out to be a long-standing ruler of a rival kingdom, but Jaskier's about to position himself in the middle of a huge amount of hypothetical bloodshed; a swift snip of the neck seems largely painless compared to what's about to transpire. There's always the chance of another assassination attempt on his person while he sits about twiddling his thumbs, which always sucks balls for obvious reasons.

The centre of The Maze is far from difficult to find when you've had free reign of it for years.

And so he sits, and waits.

*

Geralt finds him easily.

Of course he fucking does.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a different sort of story. For me. Kudos/comments oh so very much appreciated. <3 I'm a bit mentally checked-out after this, ain't gonna lie. I hope it's an enjoyable read, at least.
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
